When the Dead Walk
by The Red Fedora
Summary: "And when the dead walk, the living will fill these coffins."
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to the immortal Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and SHERLOCK to BBC and the brilliant team of Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Only borrowing._

_Author's Note: I had an idea and couldn't resist writing another Halloween type tale. This one was inspired by a line from the first of Sherlock Holmes movies starring Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. It is set roughly a year and a half after the St. Bart incident of Season 2 Episode 3 – and approximately two year following the events of Tick tock, Drip drop. _

_This story dedicated to the fans and readers of Tick Tock, Drip Drop – in humble thanks of their kind reviews and continued reading. The greatest compliment a writer can receive is that their stories are read and enjoyed. Thank you all. Without further ado, I offer you – When the Dead Walk._

* * *

_And when the dead walk, the living will fill these coffins. – Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

The bare branches of the scraggly patch of trees swayed drunkenly with an ominous creaking, reaching downward like giant grasping fingers as a low moan echoed through the park. A nervous twitter of laughter answered, followed by the sound of quickening footfalls as a loitering couple quickened their pace along the well beaten footpath.

It did not do to linger on a night such as this.

A few remaining leaves tugged free and swirled along with the gust of wind as it continued on its way. An abandoned sheet of newsprint slipped from a nearby bench, rustling quietly as it joined the odd dance. It twisted upward like a kite and then hung for a moment on the air, suspended in place as the wind stilled, before twirling toward the ground in an oddly graceful fall. It came to an abrupt halt as the toe of a well worn boot caught its edge, pinning it to the damp earth.

The boot shifted as a gloved hand reached down and plucked the battered paper from the dirt, smoothing it open carefully and angling it toward the yellow glow of a nearby lamp post. A pair of intelligent eyes narrowed beneath the brim of a tweed cap as they studied the large dark print of the headline.

_HEADSMAN SIGHTED IN HYDE PARK_

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade grimaced at the pronouncement. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and pitched it into the nearest bin as he resumed his brisk pace.

Headsman indeed.

Unlike the sensational string of murders that had plagued Hyde Park during the late eighteenth century, the current 'headsman' appeared to be less of a deranged murderer and more likely someone's idea of a Halloween inspired prank. There had been no murders as of yet, no assault...unless a splattering with pumpkin bits counted as such. In fact the whole matter seemed to revolve around a mere handful of reported sightings of a 'ghostly apparition' carousing about the park on horseback.

A _headless_ apparition…on a _glowing _horse.

Not that sightings of this sort were uncommon at this time of year. In fact, they were likely to increase the closer the calendar crept toward the end of October…less than a week away. Already there had been reportings of vampires in the Underground (a promotional for an theater show), thefts attributed to an invisible man (a not so invisible thief and a small monkey), the usual amount ghost and goblins sighted in various parts of the city (greatest number near the cemeteries), a woman who had shot her neighbor's dog after mistaking the wolfhound for a werewolf (or so she insisted)…

….and now one distinctly _American_ folk villain was carousing about in Hyde Park.

Some days he really hated his job…

As if there were not enough real horrors to deal with on a weekly basis. Lestrade's heavy sigh was muffled by the thick wool scarf, wound round his neck to ward off the chill of the damp October wind. His shoulders slumped wearily as he considered the thought….and the stack of case files which awaited his return. Perhaps he should have accepted John's offer to join him in Scotland for a holiday. Mary Watson had opted to visit family in Brighton while her husband attended a week long seminar at his Alma Matter in Edinburgh, and so John had suggested Lestrade join him for a bit of late season fly fishing in the north at its conclusion. At the time of the offer, Lestrade had thought it unwise to leave London…though he desperately needed a holiday.

More than a year and some month's time had passed since Sherlock's death. Life at New Scotland Yard had moved on…but it had not been pleasant or easy. Not that it ever was. A mysterious benefactor, whom he suspected to be the elder Holmes though the man himself had not surfaced since the death of his brother, had arranged for his suspension to be lifted and his position reinstated shortly after the incident at St. Bart's.

A great many meetings had been held behind closed doors, the conclusion of which had resulted in the closure of all investigations into the validity of the evidence of the cases solved with the aid of one private consulting detective. Definitive proof had been submitted confirming the identity of the late James Moriarty, as well as evidence linking him to a number of heinous crimes. It appeared that Sherlock Holmes had been wronged…though no one at New Scotland Yard had offered an official apology. Oh a statement had been given to the press, which addressed Moriarty's crimes and circumstances surrounding his death, however Sherlock was mentioned only in passing…

…a brief and unimpressive tribute of sorts to a man who deserved more…much more.

Despite Lestrade's reinstatement, the higher ups at the Yard had inflicted a punishment of their own for his actions and 'lapse of judgment', demoting him and placing another in his former position of head of the Violent Crimes Division. A pompous git by the name of Gregson. The man had made it his sole mission to make Lestrade's life as miserable as possible, as if he was daring him to give up…though Lestrade's dedication and sense of professionalism prevented him from responding with anything the best of which he was able.

Gregson had taken an unnaturally gleeful interest in the case of the headless horseman, assigning it to Lestrade with the bare minimum of support and an order that the matter be resolved inside a week's time. Bradstreet and Hopkins had volunteered their services, as had Donavan. His relationship with Sally was tentative at best, however she appeared to be truly sorry for the trouble she had caused…and ashamed for falling for Moriarty's scam so easily. She had apologized and he had forgiven her.

Loyalty was rare at the Yard these days...and he needed all the friends he could get.

"Half past nine and no movement of the north side of the park, though I have chased off my fair share of thrill seekers and lovebirds."

The sound of Hopkins' soft tenor through his ear piece drew Lestrade from his dark study and back to the cold reality of the present. No sense in dwelling on what could not be helped…not while he had a 'ghost' to catch.

"Quiet to the south as well," Bradstreet replied. "Though my nose suggests that the weather is going to take a turn for the worse in less than an hour's time. I say if the headman doesn't appear by ten, we let him have the park and retreat to a warmer location."

"By that you mean The _Hart and Hound_." came Donavan's dry retort. "The security cameras are not picking up anything unusual, though the coverage is a bit spotty. Your scarf has slipped over your cam, Boss."

Lestrade adjusted the offending item, wrapping it tighter around his neck and away from the pin camera secured in the lapel of his overcoat. The temperature had fallen at least five degrees in the last two hours. Perhaps Bradstreet was right in his assessment of the weather. "Better?"

"Much." Donavan replied.

"Why is it that you get to watch from the van while the rest of us freeze, Sally?" Bradstreet grumbled.

"I'm smarter than the rest of you lot, that's why."

"She's got you there, Roger." Came Hopkin's soft laugh.

Lestrade grinned to himself. "Alright, you jokers. Back to work." He stated quietly as he slowed to a stop beside the railing, which edged the banks of the Serpentine. "I've reached the scene of the most recent sighting. All appears to be quiet." He turned his back to the warm glow of the lamp to his left, shielding his face from view as he continued. "If he keeps to his pattern, he should show himself within the next few moments. With any luck we might just be able to put an end to this matter tonight, and send the ghoul back across the pond where he belongs."

"From your mouth to the good Lord's ears." Bradstreet mumbled. "We're coming around to join you."

"I'll be here."

The radio fell silent. Lestrade shifted his position, carefully pointing his camera at the shadow stand of trees just beyond the reach of the lamppost. It went against his nature to deliberately expose his position; however, the headsman seemed to crave an audience and perhaps his presence might encourage the apparition to appear all the sooner. He slipped his chilled hands into his pockets against the wind, and his right hand curled around the solid grip of his gun as he settled back to wait.

A few long minutes crept by with nothing but the sound of the wind howling through the trees and the rustling of dry leaves along the path. A few more crept by and still nothing.

"Boss, move to your left a bit." Donavan requested quietly. "The security camera nearest to your position caught a bit of movement."

Lestrade shifted his stance. A figure had appeared on the path a short distance away, moving in his direction at a casual stroll. Too short to be Bradstreet and too wide at the shoulders to be Hopkins. He suppressed a groan.

"Sally?"

"No clue, Boss. He just appeared out of thin air."

His gaze shifted from the stranger to the shadows and back as he considered a course of action. If he moved to warn the man of the potential danger, it would expose his identity to the horseman if he were watching. Then again, he couldn't in good conscience stand by and allow an innocent bystander to end up in harm's way, despite the fact that the man should not even be in the park to begin with. Not at this hour of the night. Lestrade glanced at his watch. There was still a little time before the phantom was expected to make his appearance. At the man's current pace, there was a small chance that he might pass on by if left to himself.

"Watch yourself, Lestrade." Came Sally's soft warning.

His hand tightened securely the weapon in his pocket as the stranger slowed his pace, coming to a stop just beyond the edge of the light. So much for wishful hoping. The man's face was shadowed beneath the rim of a well cut fedora, his body shrouded by the folds of a long overcoat. Only his trousers from the knees down, and his well polished shoes were visible. Not a drifter, then. The two men stood quietly for a moment, appraising one another, and Lestrade felt the small hairs at the back of his neck raise as the man shifted a step closer.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, we meet again." The words were spoken with a chillingly familiar measured tone. "Did you miss me?"

The gun was out of his pocket and leveled at the man before Lestrade registered the fact he had moved at all. His pulse thundered in his ears as he took a step closer, his voice a low growl. "I don't know who you are or what you are attempting to pull…"

"Oh come now." The man interrupted with a relaxed tone, as if he were simply remarking on the weather and not standing in the path of a gun. "You know exactly who I am, don't you?" He moved forward, pausing with his hands raised as Lestrade tightened his grip on his weapon in a warning. The man reached up slowly with a smirk and removed the hat, angling his face into the light. Lestrade felt the blood drain from his face as he studied the apparition before him.

"Moriarty is dead." He stated with a calm he didn't feel, ignoring the buzz of voices over his ear piece. "I witnessed the autopsy myself, and the cremation of his remains. I don't know what sort of sick prank you are trying to pull, but you chosen the wrong night."

The man's face morphed into a pout. "I am not here to cause trouble, Inspector. I simply have a question to ask."

"What question?" Lestrade stated through clenched teeth, his finger edging against the cold thin metal of the trigger.

"Where is John Watson?"

Lestrade shifted forward with a low growl, halting mere inches from the man as a gun suddenly appeared in the man's gloved hand. "Now, now, Inspector, that is hardly polite."

"What do you want with him?" Lestrade asked, a warning lacing his tone.

The answering twist of a smile failed to reach the man's cold eyes. "That is none of your concern."

"I'm making it my concern." Lestrade countered.

Moriarty shifted his gun slightly, pointing the silver muzzle directly at Lestrade's heart. "A simple question, Inspector. Tell me what I want to know and I will spare your life. Otherwise.." The thin shoulders lifted with a sight shrug and the thin mouth twisted in a grin. "Your choice."

Lestrade held the man's cold stare with one of his own. "There is a chance I can take you with me."

"Perhaps…then again, perhaps not."

An eerie laughter echoed through the tense space, joined by the pounding of hooves against the hard packed earth…

And in a moment all hell broke loose…

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_A/N: The headsman murders refer to an excellent book titled "The Hyde Park Headsman" by Anne Perry. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Edinburgh, Scotland_

A roar of laughter echoed through the crowded pub, drawing attention briefly toward the two men seated at a table in the corner of the large room. John Watson watched bemused from across the polished table top as his former classmate gasped for breath. His eyes narrowed slightly in concern as the man's face continued to grow redder by the second, a product of the combined effects of alcohol and a lack of oxygen. Then again Stamford had never been able to hold his liquor, not even when they were students at uni. Just when he believed the man could grow no redder, Stamford gave a shuddering gasp which gave way to a fit of coughing. Ale dribbled down his wobbling chin as he downed the last dregs of his glass in an effort to quall it.

John settled back, relaxing into the curved wood of the chair as he waited for Stamford to collect himself. He hid his grin behind his own glass and cast a glance around the pub. He had missed it…the warmth of the dark wood, the gold of the thick curtains which framed the large windows which looked out over the streets of Old Town, the smell of thick stews and strong ales…all the better now that they could afford better quality liquor rather than the cheap beer used as a lure to draw the students from the university. _The Doctors_, as it was appropriately named, was a favorite of his from his days as a med student at the University of Edinburgh. Conveniently located across the road from the medical school and the new surgeon's hall, it had once served as a safe haven of sorts for a rag tag collection of young men at the beginning of a new adventure, looking to make their marks on the world.

He wondered where the others were and if they had indeed become the great men they had dreamed of becoming…or if life had taken a bit of a different path, like his had…not that he would have changed it. Well, perhaps some bits. His focus shifted to Stamford as his friend gave a last rasping cough and set his glass down before him with a dull clunk.

"He actually said that? 'Round and round the garden like a teddy bear'?" Stamford wheezed.

Despite the twinge of melancholy which accompanied the memory, John grinned. "I believe those were his words exactly."

Stamford gave a knowing chuckle. "Yes, well, Sherlock always did have a flare for the dramatics."

John snorted and tipped his glass in small salute. "That he did." The grin dimmed a bit as he considered the dark liquid at the bottom of his glass. His fingers flexed unconsciously around the curve of the glass as his chest tightened, as it always did when he spoke of his late friend.

It had been nearly eighteen months…two weeks…and three days…since the incident at St. Bart's, and yet some days it seemed like just yesterday.

For six months after he had clung to a desperate hope that the horror he had witnessed had all been some sort of elaborate stunt on Sherlock's part, just another trick. For six long months he had watched and waited, as he struggled to make sense of all that occurred on that fateful day…but try as he might, some facts still alluded him. By the time he had been able to fight his way through the crowd, Sherlock's body had already been removed and whisked into the hospital, and out of sight.

Oh, the body on the slab at the morgue had been real enough…in his nightmares he still saw Sherlock's pale face, nearly translucent beneath the harsh overhead lights, blood staining his ivory skin. Too much blood. Still if he had learned anything in his time with Sherlock, it was that looks could be deceiving. He had been prevented from examining the body; in fact he had only been allowed the one brief glimpse for identification purposes before he was removed by a few very determined men in dark suits. The body was gone when he returned hours later, as was Molly.

Eighteen months ago he would have been willing to swear before God and a court of law that Sherlock Holmes was incapable of suicide. The man had been much too fond of himself to even consider it. Risk his life to prove he was clever? Yes – John had accused him as much at the close of their first case together. Suicide though…No. John had been unable to accept it. When Moriarty was involved, there was always a larger scheme involved…a bigger reason…but his attempts to discover the truth had been thwarted at every turn.

Six months had passed…and then six more.

Mycroft had advised him to move on, to let his brother rest in peace, that Sherlock would have wanted him to move on. John had told the man to go to Hell. What right had the man after the part he had played in his own brother's destruction? In the end it had been Mary, his angel, who had managed to draw him back from the darkness that had threatened to consume him for the second time in his life.

Lestrade was reinstated, Sherlock's name was cleared and, while the reason for his death remained as ambiguous as it had on that fateful day, life began to move on and John along with it. He and Mary had been married that past spring with Lestrade standing as best man. He had returned to practicing medicine, and had even, after much deliberation, accepted a position assisting the NSY as a part-time medical examiner. After four years of Sherlock's influence, like it or not, solving crimes had become as necessary as breathing…even though it often pained him to do so, particularly when he caught himself searching the scene for a familiar figure with in a long dark coat…

"So the poor bloke just stands there, stunned, coated from head to toe with some sort of noxious bluish goo…"

John blinked hard as the nose of the crowded pub came back in a rush. He released his grip on the glass and rubbed a hand over his eyes as he forced a grin to his face, though he feared it was more of a grimace. Stamford, to his relief, appeared to be oblivious to his lapse, lost within his own recollection of a tale regarding an unfortunate student's encounter with one of Sherlock's more nefarious experiments. An experiment involving some sort of preservation fluid and a vat of pig intestines, the very thought made John's stomach churn. There was a reason he couldn't stand the smell of pork to this day.

"I beg your pardon, sirs."

The men turned to find a tall gangly young man, with a mop of dark curls and a wide eager expression behind a pair of large framed glasses, beside their table. The boy held out a dog-eared book and a pen.

"Dr. Watson, do you think you might..?" he asked, his voice trailing hesitantly.

John offered the boy an easy smile as he took the book. "I would be honored…"

"Nick."

John nodded, signing the book with a flourish. Such questions were becoming more and more common. It appeared nearly everyone had a copy these days. He could barely go more than ten steps out of his door before being stopped for his autograph.

_The Case Files of Sherlock Holmes_.

His therapist had suggested that he continue to write, perhaps consider publishing his blog stories into a book. Seeing it as a chance to set the record straight regarding his late friend, he had finally agreed. In a way, it had provided a small bit of closure. His bit of defiance against a world that believed the lies had exploded with greater popularity than he ever dreamed. People loved his stories and clamored for more. Sherlock Holmes had become a household name practically overnight, and the damage done to his reputation repaired. For that John was willing to put up with a bit of inconvenience.

A small ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth as his eyes brushed the photo on the book's cover. Sherlock's penetrating gaze peered upward at him from beneath the rim of the infamous deer stalker cap. The smirk widened as John recalled the detective's scathing opinion of the photo, and the hat.

_It has _earflaps_, John._

Perhaps it was well for him that Sherlock had not lived to see it plastered on the cover of a book that was fast becoming a world-wide best seller. John returned the book and the pen to the star-struck student.

"There you are, Nick. See you at tomorrow's lecture?"

Nick nodded with an intensity which made him resemble an oversized bobble head doll. He stammered out a thank you and returned to his group of friends, who were failing to hide their gawking a table on the opposite side of the room. A few of the students, he recognized from his seminar class.

"Were we ever that young?" Stamford asked.

John grinned. "Once perhaps, ages ago."

The man snorted softly. "Didn't realize that you were such a celebrity."

"Shut it."

It had been an enjoyable experience and he was glad he had given in to Stamford's urging to join him. His topic of choice had focused on forensic medicine, using a few select cases from his time with Sherlock as case studies. The students were bright and eager to learn; especially it seemed from the famous Dr. Watson – one half of the world's most successful investigative team, and close friend of the late, great Sherlock Holmes.

Speaking of which, he had one last lecture in the morning to prepare. He signaled the waiter for the check as he retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his coat.

"Leaving already?" Stamford groaned.

John grinned. "I have a lecture to review for and some of us have to set a good example for the young ones." He placed a handful of notes on the table and stood, shrugging into his coat.

"Oi, Mike!" came a shout from the general direction of the bar.

Stamford gave the shouter a wave of acknowledgement.

"Stay if you like, I can find my way back."

"Perhaps I will." Stamford shot John a concerned glance as he stood. "Don't get into any trouble. I promised Mary I would return you in one piece."

John offered his friend a fond smile as he slapped his thick shoulder lightly.

"This is Edinburgh, Mike, not London. I think I'll manage. See you back at the flat." With that he made his way through the crowded room and out into the night.

A cold wind swept around the corner of the building, blowing the light drizzle beneath the protective overhang of the doorway. John shifted his wool scarf higher around his neck and turned the collar of his coat up for good measure before stepping out into the night. The streets were still fairly active despite the late hour and the weather. The flat provided to visiting professors was located just off the university campus, a relatively short distance from the pub. John decided to forgo a cab and walk. With his busy schedule, he'd had little time to indulge in his favorite pastime: wandering the streets of the city and soaking in a bit of Auld Reikie's charm.

At night the city was particularly spectacular, even with a bit of rain, perhaps even more so because of it. Edinburgh was a city unique in itself, a city so old that one could not take a step without stumbling upon some sort of history, both the good and the more nefarious. Kings had ruled and died, conspiracies had been plotted, great discoveries made, murders concocted and secrets buried beneath its stones…if the walls of the city could talk, oh the stories they could tell. It was no wonder that the city had inspired many of the greatest writers of the times: Walter Scott, Robbie Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson… Every corner whispered a story aching to be told…

John turned his gaze from the Castle, which gleamed brightly from its perch high above the city, as the light turned. He crossed the busy street, pausing on the opposite side as he considered the towering stone building which housed the medical college. His own field of medicine had a dark past, a bit of which was housed within the Surgeon's Hall – a skeleton and death mask of one of the world's most infamous serial killers, a man by the name of William Burke. Burke, along with his partner William Hare, had murdered sixteen people in their reign of terror, selling the bodies to a doctor by the name of Robert Knox for the medical school. The events of which had inspired many a play and book, including Robert Louis Stevenson's chilling tale _The Body Snatchers_.

John felt a small shiver inch its way up his spine at the thought. He grinned at the foolishness of it as he turned off the busy road onto the nearly silent side passage which ran through the university grounds. If he were one to believe in ghosts, Edinburgh would be the place for it. In a city as ancient as this one, bodies were buried literally everywhere and many an old kirkyard had been lost as the city continued to evolve and thrive. In fact, he knew of Kirk in particular which had sold its plot to a local hotel chain. He wondered if the guests of the hotel knew what lay beneath its foundation. He laughed at himself as he quickened his pace, more in defense against the cold rather than fear of the dark. He had witnessed enough horrors in his lifetime to dull his beliefs in ghosts and goblins.

Mary, however, would have found the tales fascinating. With that, his thoughts turned wistful as he made his way through the quiet residential area. He missed his wife greatly and had been hesitant to separate from her, even for such a short amount of time, but she had insisted that he go. He was to join her in a week in Brighton, where she was caring for an old friend, a Mrs. Forrester, as the older lady convalesced by the seaside. A small frown wrinkled his forehead and he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. It was odd that Mary hadn't called. She had made it a practice to call every night before turning in. He pulled it from his pocket and gave a low groan as he discovered that he had forgotten to turn it back on after the evening lecture.

His toggled it on, his frown deepening quizzically as the screen displayed a number of missed calls and messages, most from Lestrade. He slowed his pace as he dialed the Inspector's mobile, which went straight to voicemail. Frown deepening, he tried his own voicemail. There were two messages: the first from Mary who assured him she was having a wonderful time and missed him lots. The second was Lestrade's voice. A strong sense of dread swept through John at the tone of his friend's voice. There was some sort of disturbance in the background, of which Lestrade seemed to be part of. His voice was a bit muffled as he spoke to someone on his end…his next words came through as clear as crystal.

"John, call me when you get this. Find some place safe and stay put. It is vital that you do."

The message ended. He quickened his pace, sweeping the area with a supposed casual glance as he crossed the empty street to the flat. A second attempt to contact the Inspector garnered no more success than his first. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment as he debated whether or not he should call Mary. He gave in, shifting the phone to his shoulder as he fumbled for his key, the darkened streets quickly loosing the serenity they had provided mere moments earlier. Whatever happened, it was bad.

Greg Lestrade was not unsettled easily.

* * *

_A/N:_ _My apologies if I got a few of the Edinburgh details wrong. Had to use a bit of creative licensing as I have walked past the Doctor's Pub many times but haven't yet had the opportunity to stop in. Edinburgh is truly one of the most unique and amazing cities that I have had the privilege to visit. Its beauty and history are something that must be experienced in person. I highly recommend that you do – and for those of you who hail from Scotland – lucky you__ - If you get a chance, check out the Literary Walking Tour by Alan Foster – fantastic. _


	3. Chapter 3

_New Scotland Yard_, _London_

The room was cold, both in temperature and in atmosphere, shaped much like a box with walls and the low ceiling colored a dull and dreary gray. A metal table sat at the center, its legs bolted to the bare concrete floor. A lone florescent bulb glowed dimly from a panel set into the ceiling directly above the table, its light reflecting off the dull surface with an eye straining glare. Dark shadows cloaked the edges of the room beyond the reach of the light. A small red pinpoint of light shone from one dark corner where a camera watched over the lone occupant of the room.

The man might have been a statue if not for the sound of raspy breathing. A soft jangle of metal whispered from the center of the room as he shifted. His dark head rested awkwardly against his arms, his wrists cuffed and bound to a metal bar welded into tabletop at its center. The hinges of the lone door creaked and the man jerked upward in his chair, wincing as the cuffs strained against his wrists. He blinked against the harsh light that flooded the room as the remainder of the blubs blinked on without warning.

Lestrade studied the man as he crossed the room, his steps measured and unhurried. Beneath the glare of the florescent lights of the interrogation room, the man less resembled the ghost he had claimed to be, though there was enough a similarity to make the inspector's skin crawl and his eyes shift to the man's restraints. Not that there was much need for the restraints now. The very air surrounding the man seemed to reek with an aura of defeat. A screeching noise like the sound of nails on a chalkboard cut through the small room as Lestrade took the chair opposite the man.

The door closed with a soft click as Bradstreet took up position against it, his arms loosely folded over his chest and his dark eyes focused on the prisoner. Lestrade could feel the eyes of the remainder of his team watching from through the mirrored glass behind him. They had refused to let him out of their sight after the events at the park, the details of which were still a bit muddled as far as he was concerned. His head ached dully from where it had impacted the ground. He ignored the pain, his face set in an impassive mask as he set the thick file folder on the table.

"I want my lawyer."

Lestrade settled back against his chair, his posture deceptively relaxed as he met the man's glare with a piercing stare of his own.

"This will go much easier for you if you cooperate." He stated.

"You have nothing on me." The man countered quietly, his eyes shifting back to the table.

A small hard smile twitched at the corner of Lestrade's mouth as he opened the folder. "It seems the Yard has quite a bit of documentation on your past exploits, Mr. Dalton. Part time actor, small time confidence man. In fact, you are wanted for questioning regarding several small matters." He ran his thumb along the edge of the thick stack of paper, rustling it for emphasis. "However, let's keep to the current charges for now, shall we? To start with: assaulting an officer, resisting arrest, destruction of public property," Lestrade stated quietly as he slid a photograph across the table beneath the man's bowed head. The man's face grew a shade paler and his jaw clenched but he remained silent. "Impersonation of a known terrorist, conspiracy to commit murder...Any one of them is enough to allow me to hold you for a least twenty-four hours. You might manage to be freed on a technicality; however I feel it only fair to warn you that in the past those with connections to James Moriarty have not had a long life expectancy rate following their release."

Pale gray eyes the color of a winter sky rose at his statement, fear simmering beneath their surface.

"He'll kill me."

"Who will kill you, Mr. Dalton? Who hired you to impersonate this man tonight?"

Lestrade tapped a finger against the edge of the photos drawing the man's attention to them, before sliding a third before him. Dalton blanched as Moriarty's lifeless eyes stared up at him from the photograph. His mouth opened and then snapped shut with an audible click as he turned his eyes away. Lestrade fought the urge to sigh.

"We found two rounds embedded in the trunk of the tree behind the spot where I was standing at the time of our discussion." Rounds which would have struck him first if he had not been pushed to the ground. "The weapon we took from you contained only blanks. This fact gives me reason to wonder if you knew the shooter was in the woods and were working with him. If that is the case, I can hold you with attempted murder. Or perhaps you really are just an idiot someone hired to take the fall for my murder. Which is it, Mr. Dalton? Who hired you?"

"I don't know." The man replied, hysteria coloring his voice, the knuckles of his clenched fists white. "I don't know. A package was left in my post box. It contained a script, your photo and the location of the meet. It seemed a bit odd as I hadn't had a job like this for nearly two years, but I needed the money so I took it."

Lestrade shifted forward in his chair, pressing forward into the man's space, his eyes hard and cold.

"What do you want with John Watson?"

"It was in the bloody script." Dalton whimpered. He slumped in his chair like a puppet whose strings had been severed. "Nothing followed the script. What the hell was that thing?" He whispered as he lowered his head, pressing his eyes against the heels of his bound hands, as if attempting to blot out an image.

Lestrade shot a small humorless grin with Bradstreet over the man's bowed head. He knew exactly what _thing_ the man was referring to. Dalton's reaction to the sudden arrival of the Horseman had been dramatic, though he couldn't fault him for it. After all it isn't every day one is charge at by a large cloaked figure carrying a flaming jack-o-lantern mounted on a glowing horse the size of a small elephant traveling at roughly the speed of a freight train. Or so it had seemed.

Even if Dalton's weapon had contained live shells, he would have had none left to use after emptying his clip in at the apparition. While he had pulled his own weapon, Lestrade'd had little time to react himself before a body slammed into his suddenly and without warning, knocking him hard to the ground. By the time he had regained his senses, Bradstreet was hovering over him, the pseudo Moriarty was lying cuffed and unconscious on the path and the apparition was gone…as was the man who had struck him. Bradstreet had reported seeing a tall thin figure in a tattered overcoat vanish into the woods at the edge of the path, and it was Hopkins, who arrived a few moments later out of breath ad splattered in scorched pumpkin bits, who had discovered the bullet holes in the tree. A quick search of the surrounding area revealed nothing more than a flat patch of earth that perhaps had held clues that only Sherlock Holmes could have deciphered. God rest him.

Whoever the mysterious stranger was, it was very likely the man had saved his life.

Unfortunately they were no closer to an answer as to what the shooter was after…other than John Watson. It appeared that even in death, the ghost of James Moriarty continued to plague them…

But why now after all this time? What had changed?

A loud abrupt knock rattled the door suddenly and Lestrade stood it opened to reveal Gregson. Before he could question the interruption, his superior stepped into the room and handed him a folded paper. As he took it, two men dressed in dark suits entered the room behind him.

"These gentlemen are here to take possession of the suspect." Gregson stated with a dour expression. "I expect that you will provide them with your complete cooperation."

Lestrade opened the paper and scanned it quickly, his anger rising as he did so. He nodded to Bradstreet who moved reluctantly toward the table, drawing a ring of keys from the pocket of his trousers as he did so. Gregson turned and walked out of the room. Lestrade followed him, leaving Bradstreet to assist the men with the prisoner.

"What is this really about? What does MI-5 want with a low level conman?"

Gregson stopped and turned to face him, his eyes shadowed and hard. "When the Home Office gives an order, I don't usually ask why. This is no longer your case, Detective Inspector. Now I suggest that you let the matter drop and concentrate on Headsman." He spun on his heel without further word and stalked down the hall with one last remark. "You have less than four days left, Lestrade. Tick, tock."

The paper crumpled as his hand clenched into a fist. He closed his eyes and forced a deep breath into his lungs, letting it out slowly through his nose as he struggled to contain his anger. He opened them as the hinges of the door to the interrogation room squeaked and stepped aside as the men moved past with Dalton in tow. His eyes narrowed as a thought crossed his mind. Donavan appeared from the opposite direction, precariously balancing a pair of steaming mugs, a file tucked beneath one arm. She tipped her head slightly in the direction of the men as she reached him.

"Holmes?"

Lestrade shrugged wearily as he accepted one of the mugs with a murmured thanks. The thought had crossed his mind. Moriarty's name alone was enough to draw the interest of one Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade could read between the lines well enough to know that the man was likely the one behind the quiet endeavor to unearth and dissolve the remains of James Moriarty's massive network. One strand at a time. How he had discovered Dalton's location so quickly was the question, though Lestrade would not have been all that surprised to find the man had moles inside the Yard. For someone who had once claimed to occupy a 'minor' office in the British government, Holmes own network rivaled that of Moriarty's.

"Not exactly his jurisdiction, however that fact has never stopped him before."

The door to the observation room opened and the smell of pumpkin wafted out as Hopkins joined them. Lestrade hid his smile behind the rim of his mug.

"You smell like a farmer's market." Donavan remarked as she passed him, leading the way toward the bullpen.

"She's right." Bradstreet remarked as he joined them. "Next time try dodging."

"I did dodge. It was either the horse or the pumpkin." Hopkins retorted.

"Alright, you lot, we have work to do." Lestrade stated, cutting off Bradstreet's reply with a look of warning. "Sally, what did you find?"

"The lab found a match for the blood stain on your jacket." She began.

"And?"

"The information is classified."

Lestrade paused in mid-step, nearly spilling his coffee as Bradstreet moved quickly to avoid him. "It's what?" He asked incredulously.

She shrugged and handed him the folder. His frustration returned as he scanned the document. It was as she said. The match was listed as classified, beyond even his pay scale. Lestrade scowled at the paper.

"And the rest?"

"Mrs. Hudson apparently won an all expenses paid holiday to Bermuda last week. She's been out of the country for the past two days."

"Convenient." Bradstreet remarked.

Lestrade slumped into his desk chair with a weary sigh, letting his head fall back against the head rest. "At least she is safe. Roger, take the second sample to Molly at St. Bart's and see if she will run it for us. Stanley, go with him. Sally, run our boy's name through the database one more time for any possibility related to Moriarty's past activities and networks, and while you're at it check if any of Moriarty's known associates have recently been released or are at large. After that, go home and get some rest."

"What about you, boss? Have you forgotten that someone tried to kill you tonight?"

Lestrade met the concerned frowns of his team with a grim smile.

"I'm not the one they are after."

This wasn't over…not by a long shot.

* * *

_A/N: forgive me for the delay. I wrote the scene at least five different ways before this one came about. I promise that I will not leave this story unfinished. _


	4. Chapter 4

The shrill whistle of the electric kettle pierced the silent kitchen with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop…but John barely registered the noise, so intent was his focus on the small object resting near the table's edge.

Nearly an hour had passed since Mycroft's last message. One which had requested, in a most polite manner, that John 'desist in his harassment' of his staff…namely Anthea…as it would not speed processes but might in fact inhibit them, which could be 'very detrimental' to the current mission, as to which he was certain was not John's intention.

To put it bluntly: Shut up and wait patiently.

As he had little choice in the matter, John had reluctantly agreed. And so here he was…waiting…his patience fraying with each tick from the clock mounted above the kitchen door. He pushed to his feet with a frustrated sigh and stalked the short distance to the counter, plunging a hand into the small canister of tea bags beside the kettle. A fragrant shower of bits of chamomile coated the counter, his waiting mug and the front of his jumper as he ripped through the thin tea bag along with its paper wrapper. He tossed the ruined bag into the sink along with the mug in a fit of frustration. His hands closed over the edge of the sink with a white knuckled grip as he struggled to cool his rising anger. It would do him no good to lose his temper.

Even though he had reason too.

After nearly six months of silence Mycroft had, without warning, enacted a long dormant security measure, one put into place nearly two year prior following an incident involving Sherlock's abduction by Moriarty from their Baker Street flat. A flat which had been, at the time, supposedly under the watchful eye of Mycroft's top agents, John thought bitterly. Though it had ended well enough, images of that night and Moriarty's inhuman device still haunted his nightmares. The measure involved the immediate removal of all vulnerable assets, namely Mrs. Hudson and Mary Watson, to a safe location in the event that a viable threat, namely Moriarty, was determined.

John had only recently discovered that Mrs. Hudson had been relocated days earlier…which meant that Mycroft knew something he wasn't sharing. A fact which John was not going to let rest…not now that his wife had been relocated, along with Mrs. Forrester, to an unknown location in the country. John rubbed a heavy hand over his face, tugging it roughly through his hair as he struggled to make sense of it all. Lestrade had yet to answer his calls, which left him feeling very unsettled. Mycroft's reaction suggested a very serious threat. While John had no proof at this time that the two were connected, he had a very strong gut feeling that they were.

Moriarty might be long dead, but his empire had slithered on…

John exhaled slowly through his nose, then straightened and reached for the tea canister, more out of a need to keep busy. The sweet scent of chamomile filtered through the small room as the he poured the steaming water into his waiting mug. The furrows etched into his forehead slowly relaxed as he inhaled the comforting scent, but only for a brief moment before they deepened once more as a tight frown marred his face. He turned and reached for his phone, pausing as it trilled softly. His breath left his lungs in a sudden rush as he read the waiting message, relief washing through him as he sank heavily into his waiting chair.

The message was simple: a delivery confirmation for an order of one dozen white tulips. The sender listed only as Brighton's Blooms by the Bay. The agreed upon message signaling Mary's safe arrival. John exited the screen and pulled up another, typing quickly.

_Return her safely. _

The reply came less than a beat later, as if the man had been expecting his response.

_You have my word. _

Whatever issue he still had with the older Holmes, John knew his word was trustworthy. Mary was in safe hands…he only wished that he was with her, watching over her himself. It was _his_ job to protect her.

He looked down as the phone trilled once more.

_Mind your keepers. _

John snorted softly in response. Right. He stood and flipped the switch by the door, plunging the room into darkness before moving over to the window above the sink. He shifted the edge of the curtain back from the glass and peered down at the quiet street below. It seemed peaceful enough, even the rain had ceased; however his military honed senses whispered that eyes were watching…eyes other than those of the men in the unmarked car parked across the street from the flat. His keepers, as Mycroft had so aptly described them. John shifted his gaze to the shadows which lined the bit of gated park beyond the reach of the street lights. He focused on a section of hedge as his eyes caught movement, relaxing a bit as a small black cat emerged onto the path. He watched as it skittered across the street, then released the curtain with a small shake of his head.

His phone rang, this time signaling a call and he relaxed a small bit as he read the name on the screen.

"Greg." He answered as he collected his tea and made his way through the dimly lit flat to his bedroom. Stamford was still out, he noted absently as he passed the man's darkened door.

"John." His friend sounded weary. "It's good to hear your voice. How's Edinburgh?"

John smiled. "The same as always: lovely and temperamental." He remarked as he switched on the lamp on the bed side table and closed the door behind him. "How was your stroll in the park? Anything interesting?"

The last bit came out as more of a statement than a question. The inspector gave a soft huff of laughter. Laughter which sounded strained.

"A bit more than we bargained for, in fact."

John listened intently as Lestrade recounted the night's events: beginning with the stakeout in the park and ending with Dalton's removal by the men from MI-5. He let out a soft whistle as his friend finished.

"You've had quite the evening." He remarked quietly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Lestrade assured. "Nothing worse than a bump on the head…thanks to my mysterious rescuer."

"Any idea who it might have been?"

"The shooter or the man in the overcoat?" Lestrade queried with a weary chuckle.

"Both, I suppose."

"A mystery on both accounts. Donavan is running Dalton's name against our database of Moriarty's known associates, but we've had little luck so far. His known felonies have no direct connection with anything related to Moriarty. It is likely he was hired for his uncanny resemblance only, as an alibi or distraction of sorts. Always paid in cash, contacted through the post."

He heard the sound of muffled voices as Lestrade paused for a moment. He returned a moment later, his voice tired.

"As for our mysterious good Samaritan, my first thought was that it might have been one of Sherlock's homeless network, however the initial lab tests on the blood splatter he left behind came back as 'classified'."

John's eyebrows rose, nearly reaching his hairline at the statement. "Of course it is…" he muttered.

"We put out an alert with all hospitals and clinics in case, but so far no luck. I'd hope Molly might be willing to run a sample for us, but the boys just informed me that she is on holiday."

Of course she was. Molly had been oddly skittish since Sherlock. He wondered absently if she her holiday was Mycroft inspired as well.

"Right."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. There was little hope of obtaining any information from the one man with classified clearance. Mycroft lived and breathed the old adage of 'need to know', which he nearly always took it to mean that he did and others did not.

"Mycroft has enacted Devil's Foot."

He'd never liked the code name. It reminded him too much of the case involving a rather deadly hallucinogenic drug made concocted from a root by the same name.

"Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade stated quietly after a moment.

"and Mary," John added. "along with Mrs. Forrester."

A heavy sigh whispered over the line.

"What about you?" Lestrade asked. "Someone is looking for you, John."

"Mycroft sent over a couple of bodyguards, but hasn't attempted to make me leave."

"Do you think it is wise?"

John shrugged, though his friend could not see him. "If the Lord of All Things Secret does not believe it necessary, who am I to argue? I'm not going to run. Not while there is a threat to my family." He stated firmly. "What about you? Someone actually shot at you, or have you forgotten?"

"They didn't finish the job when they could have. I assume that means I am no longer the intended target. Besides, I get shot at on a weekly basis. Job hazard."

John snorted. "If your intent is to be reassuring, you've failed."

His friend laughed. "Don't concern yourself with my safety, my team had taken to dogging my every step." He paused as a muffled voice spoke on his end. "Roger says to reassure you that they will continue to do so for the time being."

John grinned. "I'd expect nothing less."

"Don't encourage them." Lestrade grumbled good naturedly.

"I don't believe they need encouragement." John offered. His humor faded as the situation began to seep back in. "Any idea as to what is really going on?"

Lestrade let out a sigh. "None. Our databases, as they are, show little to no activity among Moriarty's old network. No recent releases or sightings of known associates in London. Could be someone unknown." He paused. "What about Sherlock's personal files?"

A heaviness settled over John at the mention of said files. Sherlock had had quite an extensive set of files regarding Moriarty and his suspected networks. A copy of which had magically appeared on John's personal laptop roughly a month after Sherlock's death. It had been set with a delayed trigger to release after a certain frame of time if not provided with the correct code. Only Lestrade and Mary knew of the existence of the copy. He doubted that Mycroft knew, evidenced by the fact that it remained in his possession, unlike Sherlock's boxes of hard copy files and his laptop, all of which Mycroft had confiscated following his death.

The files had become John's obsession in the dark days following the incident at Bart's, as he had tried desperately to determine what had really happened. Why Sherlock had lied to him…why he had jumped…

He had removed them finally at Mary's gentle insistence. The files now resided on a hard drive lock safely away in a safety deposit box, along with his personal case notes, at a bank known only to he and Lestrade.

"You know where they are." John smiled tightly. "I advised that you move quickly. It's only a matter of time before Mycroft finds out about them. Keep me informed."

"I'll do that." Lestrade promised. "Be careful, John."

"You too." John replied.

He set the phone on the bedside table and folded his hands around his cooling mug as his mind whirled with thoughts and possibilities…each darker than the other, and more confusing than the last. It was a waiting game now…though he couldn't help but feel as if he were trapped in the middle, a pawn between two formidable forces. His face grew hard at the thought.

Let them find out the hard way if they wished:

John Watson was no one's pawn.

Across the street in the quiet park, a pair of eyes watched as the lights in the second story flat went dark. A shadow separated from the rest, melting deeper into the night, away from the lights and the prying eyes of the men in the unmarked car.

_Doctor located. What are your orders?_

The reply was nearly immediate.

_Watch for opportunity and extend invitation to join._

* * *

_A/N: I'm back and writing. Promise to have the story finished by the time Sherlock is back on the air…whenever that might be. Congratulations to Benedict Cumberbatch for his Golden Globe nomination! Well deserved._


	5. Chapter 5

The dawn came all too soon, though it was difficult to tell as the world outside the glass was nearly as dark as it had been when he had finally gone to bed. A steady rain fell from dull grey clouds that seemed determined to blot out what little of the early morning light had managed to creep through, and a faint howl whispered through the quiet room as a gust of wind buffeted against the building. It was a morning best spent in bed...

…but sleep was a luxury for those not plagued by ghosts – real or imagined – or secrets which refused to rest in peace.

Lestrade rubbed a rough hand over his face, willing away the heavy weights which pressed against his eye lids, and then moved it to tug through his silvering hair, attempting to restore some semblance of order to the sleep tousled locks. His eyes felt gritty, his head ached dully and a dark bruise had replaced the goose egg at his temple. He bit back a groan as his back complained as he shrugged into a charcoal colored sports jacket. Though he was far from ancient, his body had recently taken to reminding him more often than naught that neither was he as young as he had once been. He cast a longing glance at his bed and left the room.

When this latest set of problems had been dealt with, he planned to barricade himself in his flat and sleep until he could sleep no longer. It was a very pleasant thought indeed. But for now there was work to do. The bank, which held John's safety deposit box, was due to open at half past eight; this left him with just enough time to retrieve the hard drive and return to the Yard in time for the morning briefing – baring complications, and Lestrade hoped to Heaven that there were none. It was enough that he would have to waste a good hour's of time backtracking his way through the London Underground in order to discourage any shadows. He hoped the information Sherlock's database held would be worth the effort and the hours of sleep lost.

Provided it was still there.

After his conversation with John, he'd found himself eyeing the shadows for lurking figures and the streets for government issued sedans with darkly tinted windows. Still Mycroft had remained absent and silent. Perhaps his value to the man had expired now that he was no longer needed. Sherlock was dead, as was Moriarty. Not that he minded being overlooked – no, Mycroft's attentions were better spent on those who needed his protection.

A small smile warmed his grim features as the scent of strong coffee and fresh pastries greeted him as he made his way toward the kitchen of his small flat. Chocolate croissants – which mean it was Hopkins' watch. Despite his protests that he was no longer a target, his team had arranged an around the clock protective detail, splitting into shifts so that one of them accompanied him at all times. It seemed they were as determined to protect him as he was to prevent them from doing so. He had enough on his conscience already, and he had no desire to see one of them injured – or worse – in an attempt to save his life. Bradstreet had a wife and children. Hopkins and Donavan had parents and siblings, people who loved and depended upon them. He had only himself to care for.

His life was not worth theirs.

He had temporarily given in only when Bradstreet had forced his hand by threatening to sleep in his car on the street in front of Lestrade's building if he shut him out. Once inside his friend had proceeded to give up claim to the guest room in favor of the sofa in the sitting room, as it was nearest the front door. Lestrade had left him to it, too exhausted to argue. Despite his annoyance, he couldn't help but feel a fondness for their loyalty – misguided as it was. He pressed the grin back behind a mock frown as he rounded the corner into the small kitchen.

"I believe I told Roger that I am not in need of a nanny." He stated dryly. "I am fully capable of caring for myself."

"Of that I have no doubt, Detective Inspector." Came an equally dry reply.

The voice was unmistakable as was the man seated at his kitchen table – a man who was most certainly _not_ Stanley Hopkins.

Lestrade grimaced.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes." He acknowledged Mycroft with a slight nod and continued toward the counter where a pot of coffee sat waiting. Bless Hopkins for that. "Where is Detective Inspector Hopkins? You haven't poached him for your merry band of spies, I hope?" He asked, only half in jest as he poured the heady black brew into his largest mug.

The man chuckled quietly. "Tempting but no. He is quite loyal to you it seems."

"He's a good man." Lestrade smirked. "Can I offer you something? Coffee, tea, pastry?"

Mycroft politely declined. Lestrade collected his own mug and help himself to a croissant from the box on the counter before taking the seat opposite the man. "What do I owe the honor of your presence, Mycroft? Have you come to relocate me as well? I hear Bora Bora is rather nice this time of year."

A small smile flickered at the corner of the thin mouth before vanishing behind the man's impassive mask. "I am afraid not. My sources assure me the threat has moved elsewhere."

Lestrade frowned. "Northward?"

An odd mix of expression flitted across the narrow face at his inquiry…annoyance, bemusement, worry, resignation…before vanishing behind the man's impassive mask.

"You needn't be concerned with Dr. Watson's welfare. He is quite safe for now." Mycroft assured.

Despite the familiar attitude, Lestrade could not help but notice a few changes since he had last seen the elder Holmes, nearly eighteen months ago. He was thinner, roughly two stones at least, which made his features seem sharp and more angular, hawk-like - much like Sherlock's had been. His suit was well tailored, which suggested that the weight loss was not a recent occurrence. Dark circles, though faint, were present beneath the man's eyes, and stood out in sharp contrast against the paler than normal pallor of his skin. There was also a slightly wilted look to Mycroft's normally perfectly pressed suit, hinting the fact that he had not yet gone to bed as the man would never have begun the day so sloppily dressed. One could not have worked with Sherlock Holmes for as long as the DI had without picking up a trick or two, and Lestrade frowned as he considered the pieces as a whole.

Mycroft Holmes was unsettled about something, and that fact alone was enough to cause him concern.

"What's this about, Mycroft?" He stated calmly as he met the man's penetrating gaze with a steady one of his own. "I know that you know more than you are telling. Perhaps even the identity of the mysterious stranger who saved my life last night. Was he one of your? He had the right blood type."

Had Lestrade not been watching, he might have missed the subtle shift in the older man's expression at his statement, as quick as it was - a slight whitening around the mouth and a narrowing of the eyes.

_Interesting._

"…classified." He continued as he settled back against his chair. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass along my gratitude."

Mycroft merely smiled blandly. "I'm afraid that some secrets are made secret for a reason, Inspector. I've not come to convince you to leave, neither am I able to tell you what you want to know. At least for the time being…"

Lestrade hid his grimace behind his mug at the man's choice of words. _Not able or not willing?_ "Why _have_ you come, Mycroft?"

"To request that you suspend your inquires into the sniper's identity, immediately." came Mycroft's measured reply.

Lestrade gave a soft bark of laughter. A request or an order?

"If I refuse? I don't enjoy being shot at." _Or having my friends threatened._

The older man gave a tight smile. "I assure you that the matter is being…dealt with."

A scoff escaped Lestrade's tight control as he pushed to his feet and returned to the counter. His mug was still full, but he was in need of a distraction and a bit of space before he followed through on his urge to throw it. Such an action was beneath him. He felt the man's piercing gaze against the back of his head.

"Has it occurred to you that it might actually be more useful if we worked together?" He asked with more calm than he felt as he turned to face the man. "Though I understand if you no longer trust me, given what happened to Sherlock."

"What happened to my brother was no one's fault but my own."

Mycroft's steady gaze was calm and sincere as it met Lestrade's, but his eyes were tired and old. Eyes that had seen too much… eyes much like the ones he witnessed every day - in his own reflection.

He continued with quiet sincerity. "Forty eight hours, Greg. That is all I am asking."

The use of his name made the inspector pause. Mycroft had only ever used his given name twice in the time that he had known the man: the first time during his first encounter with the man as a rookie constable, after he had saved the life of the man's only brother. The second at Sherlock's memorial service…

Mycroft reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and removed a small palm sized object. Lestrade frowned. It was a figurine of a small blue police box, the T.A.R.D.I.S. ship from the science fiction program John was a great fan of…and the USB drive that had once inhabited John's safety deposit box: the drive that contained Sherlock's files.

It looked as if that trip to the bank was no longer necessary.

"I didn't take you for a fan."

Mycroft mouth twitched with a small smile. "I know what this contains and, against my better judgment, I will return it in two days time…provided you give me your word that you will let the matter rest."

It looked as if he had little choice in the matter.

"You have my word." He conceded. "Forty eight hours, and it had better be intact."

If he hadn't know any better, Lestrade would have sworn that he saw a small measure of relief flit through the man's eyes before it was replaced with a flash of humor.

"Of course."

Mycroft stood and placed a file on the table between them.

"To aid with your ghost problem." He added in response to Lestrade's questioning glance. "I may require your assistance in the future. Do see that you wrap up this little problem of yours with haste. Good day, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade remained at the counter long after the man had departed. The conversation had left him with an unsettled feeling…and no way to relieve it. There were too many questions and no way to answer them with Sherlock's files in his brother's hands. The only thing he was certain of was that something big was happening and his gut told him that John was at its center, despite Mycroft's assurances that his friend was safe for the moment. However Edinburgh was significantly outside of his jurisdiction so it looked as if he would have to trust Mycroft to his word – for now.

Lestrade sighed and pushed away from the counter, returning to his seat and his lukewarm breakfast. He pushed it aside as he reached for the file Mycroft had left behind and flipped it open. An unfamiliar face stared up at him from a black and white photo, an unfamiliar face with an oddly familiar name.

When Hopkins returned a short while later, he found his boss shaking with laughter.

* * *

_A/N: I had intended to post this sooner, but it fought me every step of the way. Hope you enjoyed. Thank you for your patience. John is up next._


	6. Chapter 6

_London, England_

A porcelain cup rested against the polished surface of the mahogany table, untouched and unnoticed. The room was quiet, apart from the steady patter of the rain against the glass panels of pair of large ornate windows, and the soft steady breathing of the man seated before them. Blue eyes stared, unseeing, at some point beyond the glass, lost in thought.

Light steps echoed from the hall beyond the door, and Mycroft shifted his gaze as his assistant entered. Her dark eyes met his and he knew the answer before she gave him a small nod. His thin mouth tightened and he straightened in his chair, reaching for his phone as the door quietly closed behind her.

_I hope you know what you are doing._

_MH_

The answer was swift.

_So do I._

* * *

_Edinburgh, Scotland_

The eyes were still watching.

They had been all morning. John could feel their weight like a physical force, pressing beneath his skin like an itch that couldn't be scratched. He rubbed the back of his neck in an effort to dislodge it as his eyes swept surreptitiously over the sea of faces that crowded the lecture hall. Most were vaguely familiar to him as attendees of the past week's lecture series, but the rest were new. His lectures, until today, had been closed to the public, which he had preferred as it had allowed him to delve deeper into the technical aspects of the cases with the students.

That, however, had changed today, when he had arrived to find his class relocated to the largest lecture hall, and that tickets had been sold to the public with proceeds to be donated to a local charity clinic - which he suspected was an effort to quiet any protests on his part. Not that he would have minded, normally, but things were far from normal at the moment. However, as the rest of the world was not currently aware of this fact, he'd had little choice but to carry on. And so for an hour he had regaled his audience with the more sensational bits of a few of Sherlock's strangest cases: the Baskerville Hound, the Vampire of Sussex, the Speckled Blonde and the Devil's foot.

Mind control, exotic creatures and deadly poisons.

It was a much different lecture than he'd planned originally, but in light of recent events he hadn't felt much like discussing Moriarty and his mind games. It had plagued his dreams, disturbing what little sleep he had managed – but in his dreams it wasn't only Sherlock he'd watched plunge to his death – shoved by unseen hands – but Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson…

…and Mary.

He'd given up on sleep near dawn, and had simply sat in the chair beside the window, watching the world through the thin space between the curtain and the glass. The weather only served to deepen his melancholy, the rain replaced sometime during the night by a slow, steadily creeping wall of white fog. A true Haar if ever he had seen one. The writer in him might have found it romantic, to see the old city shrouded as it was – but in light of the current situation, it left him feeling uneasy.

Lestrade's revelation of Mycroft's decent into petty thievery had only served to sour his mood further. It was times like these that he missed Sherlock most, if for nothing more than his uncanny ability to extract the truth from his older brother – either by deduction or by simply making a nuisance of himself, in the way that only a younger sibling could, until Mycroft gave in. John had received only one message that morning, informing him that his tickets for the afternoon train had been canceled. For the moment all he could do was wait.

He'd told Stamford that he had decided to stay a few more days in order to provide a reason for his sudden change in plans. The college had been kind enough to extend permission for his continued use of the flat for as long as he liked, a sign of goodwill in hopes of future lectures he supposed. The Dean had been quite adamant about a second series, particularly when John had gently turned down his offer of a full time teaching position at the University. It was something to consider possibly, for the future, but for now his home was London and he wasn't quite ready to leave it just yet.

In fact, a small part of him was wishing that he hadn't left it at all.

At any rate, a few more moment and he could make his exit. John suppressed a heavy sigh as he continued his examination of the crowd. No one appeared overly attentive, at least as far as he could make out in the dim lighting. No one apart from his Mycroft appointed shadows. There were two: the middle-aged man in the brown leather jacket seated at the top left hand corner of the room in reach of the rear exits, and a younger man dressed in faded denim and a well worn navy jumper in the front row a mere five steps from the stage. At least one of the men had been with him at all times since he'd left the flat earlier that morning, but theirs were not the eyes he felt now. He'd grown accustom to his keepers, their presence had become a steady white noise.

These eyes felt different… almost _familiar_ somehow.

He returned his attention to the podium before him as Dr. Bell, the head of the department, concluded the final remarks. John masked his unease behind an amicable smile as the man turned to face him.

"Thank you once again, Dr. Watson. It has truly been an honor to have you here. I do hope you will accept our offer to present another such lecture series in the near future?"

Despite his dark mood, John could not help but give the man a real smile as he accepted the offered hand. "I'd be delighted, Dr. Bell."

He had truly enjoyed himself for the most part, and was grateful to his old professor for presenting him with the opportunity. A smattering of applause followed his pronouncement, fading into the soft rumble of many voices as the crowd began to disperse.

"Bring your pretty wife along next time." Dr. Bell added quietly with a small wink. "I'd like to meet her."

John grinned. That was a given as he planned to never again let her far from his sight. "I will, sir, thank you."

A splash of color behind the older man drew his attention toward the rear of the room as the lights brightened – and his smile froze as his eyes fell upon a familiar face. A flash of brilliant blue and a quirk of a smile, against a pale face half shadowed beneath a dusky blue knit hat.

_Impossible_.

"John?"

He started as a warm hand settled on his arm, and found Bell watching him with obvious concern.

"Are you alright, my boy? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

John's eyes darted back to the crowd, but the face was gone. "Yes, yes of course." He said, relieved to find his voice steady.

A piercing alarm shattered the air and John flinched. Bell simply gave an exaggerated shrug and closed a firm hand around his arm. "Come on, lad, this way."

The man's grip was surprisingly strong for someone of his advanced years. John barely managed to snag his satchel and coat before he was tugged into the midst of the swirling sea of bodies pressing for the exit. He caught sight of one of his guards not far behind.

"It is likely the Chemistry Lab," Bell shouted above the noise. "Dr. Middleton is always setting something on fire, it seems. Magnesium, I believe it was the last time. Nasty stuff."

With Bell's vice like grip and the press of the crowd, John found little choice, but to follow as the professor led the way through the doors and out onto the street beyond. The scream of the siren quieted a bit as they did, muffled by the glass, and Bell's grip eased as he slowed to a stop a safe distance away from the building. The man's eyes narrowed.

"Wait here, lad. I believe I see Dr. Middleton." Bell said as he surged forward with single minded determination into the mass spilling from the building. "I'll see if I can't find out what happened."

It amazed John that the man was able to identify anyone between the constant flow of bodies and the weather. He shook his head as he watched the confusion. The fog had grown denser during the last few hours. It was difficult to believe it was nearly noon as the deep gloom muffled sound and light alike behind a damp hedge of hazy white. Visibility had been reduced to a mere 10 meters. People little more than ghostly silhouettes against the occasional blur of light cast from a window or a street lamp.

The fine hairs on the back of John's neck rose as he felt the eyes again. His eyes darted over the milling crowd, searching for the face he'd seen – or thought he'd seen. A chill washed over him as he paused. A familiar figure in a dusky blue hat stood watching him from the opposite side of the street. His phone chimed inside the pocket of his coat, and he retrieved it to find a message waiting.

_I'm not dead, let's have dinner._

A gloved hand rose, as he stared, and gave him a small wave. All reason fled him and he suddenly plunged forward off of the curb and into the street – and into the path of an on-coming coach. A hand reached out and caught him, dragging him back onto the curb in the nick of time. His limbs trembled with adrenaline as it passed, a wake of heat and foul smelling exhaust in its wake, and he fought to slow his pounding heart at the near miss. His eyes searched for his quarry –but the ghost had vanished.

"Are you alright, Dr. Watson?"

He turned to face the voice and found a pair of wide blue eyes watching him with concern from behind the thick rimmed glasses. The student from the pub.

"Yes, thank you, Nick."

The light changed and he darted forward through the traffic to the opposite side. Nick called after him, but John ignored him as his eyes lighted upon his quarry silhouetted against the light, which spilled from the large windows of the DOCTORS pub. She waited until he drew closer and then vanished into the fog. He followed and an elaborate game of cat and mouse ensued, from the busy roads to cobblestone side streets and slate stone paths. He nearly lost her once as the roads branched, catching sight of her waiting a short way along Candlemakers Row. The fog was thicker here, the street like a narrow canyon, with Greyfriar's high wall to his left and a row of old stone buildings on his right. She paused again at a pair of tall iron wrought gates near the bottom of the street, before slipping through. He stopped to catch his breath as he reached them, and fought the urge to roll his eyes at the irony of it. Fitting that the chase should end here –

What better place to search out a ghost than in a graveyard?

He turned as he heard his name shouted from the general direction of the street above, and a small stab of guilt caught him as he remembered his guards. He considered waiting. It was a possibility that this could be a trap. Before he could shout an answer, a woman's scream rang from inside the gates. John surged up the old stone steps and into the fog, pausing briefly when he reached the top. The screams fell silent, replaced by an eerie quiet. He strained to see through the swirling clouds, uncertain which way to take. Greyfriar's Kirkyard was one of the oldest – and largest – graveyards in the city. Its paths wove through a century's worth of ancient tombs, faded monuments and crumbling old ruins. It was the final resting place of a loyal little dog - and the home of a poltergeist, if one believed such tales.

Belief or not, a chill having little to do with the cold crept up John's spine. He wasn't a superstitious man, but on a day like today it would be only too easy to get lost in its depths. And so he waited. The scream sounded again, this time to the right of his location, nearer the rear of the yard. John moved forward, gravel skittering beneath his shoes as he hurried as fast as he dared along the uneven path. He slowed as the screams fell silent.

"Hello, is anyone there?"

No one answered. He continued on quietly, ears straining to hear against the quiet which blanketed the yard. He made out a silhouette against the fog, a slight figure hunched in upon itself, and slowly made his way toward it.

"Hello? Do you need help?"

The figure grew more defined as he neared and he discovered it was not a person at all – but a stone carving of a weeping angel. He neared its base, eyes scanning uselessly against the shroud of fog. He spun as a low grating sound echoed from his right – a low slow grinding of stone against stone. His heart thudded in his chest as he took a step forward cautiously. A sudden scuff of heavy footsteps sounded on the path behind him and a tall dark figure rushed at him from out of the fog. He spun as a pair of hands gave him a strong shove. He stumbled backward, twisting in an effort to catch his balance, but to no avail as a dark gaping hole rushed up to meet him and the darkness swallowed him whole.

A soft grinding sounded as the lid of the stone vault slid back into place.

* * *

_A/N: more to come – it won't remain unfinished._


End file.
